"And the torrents have laid bare its traces, as though
'Twere a book of which a pen renews the characters.
And I stood questioning them: but how can we question
Dumb rocks, whose speech is not clear?"--(Mo'allaka of Lebid.)

"Shiraz, and the stream of Ruknabad, and that fragrant breeze--
Disparage it not, for it is the beauty-spot of the seven regions!"
(Hafiz.)

"Chun mi-guzari bi-khak-i-Shiraz
Gu man bi-fulan zamin asir-am!"

"When thou passest by the earth of Shiraz
Say I am a captive in such-and-such a land!"

ONCE again the vicissitudes and charms of the road are
before me, but in this case a new and potent factor, hitherto
absent, comes in to counteract the regret which one must always
feel in quitting a place where one has been kindly received and
hospitably entertained, and where one has made friends, most
of whom one will in all probability never meet again. This
potent incentive to delay my departure no longer is the thought
that when I quit Isfahan, less than a week will see me in the
classical province of Fars, less than a fortnight will bring me
to the glories of Persepolis, and that after that two short days
will unfold before my longing eyes the shrines and gardens of

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"the pure earth of Shiraz," which has been throughout the goal
of my pilgrimage.

Of course the first day's march was no exception to the
general rule I have already laid down. I was aroused before
8 a.m., and informed that the muleteers were ready to start,
and desired to do so at once, as they proposed to "break a
stage," as the expression goes--that is, to push on a distance of
eight or nine parasangs to Mayar, the second halting-place out
of Isfahan to the south. I accordingly dressed hurriedly, and
finished packing, full of anxiety to secure so desirable a
consummation as the shortening of the less interesting part of the
journey by a whole day. When I descended, I found that the
muleteer had gone off again to fetch the inevitable sacking and
ropes which are always wanted, and apparently always forgotten.
I was compelled, therefore, to abandon all hopes of getting
further than Marg, some three parasangs distant from Julfa,
and to resign myself to an idle morning. It was not till after
lunch that all was ready for the start, and, bidding farewell to
my kind host, Dr Hoernle, I mounted the sorry steed assigned
to me, and, with my mind filled with delightful anticipations,
turned my face in the direction of Shiraz. Karapit, the head
servant of the Mission, accompanied me on my way as far as
the "Farewell Fountain" (rendered conspicuous by the solitary
tree which stands beside it), and even for some distance beyond
it, till the post-house of Marg appeared in the distance. Then
he turned back, wishing us a good journey; and a monotonous
ride of an hour or so brought us to our halting-place (which
the muleteers, for some reason, had changed from Marg to a
village somewhat farther on, called Kal'a-i-Shur) while it was
still early in the afternoon. We put up at a dilapidated
caravansaray, where nothing occurred to vary the monotony, except the
arrival, some time after sunset, of a party of Jewish minstrels
and dancing-boys, who were, like ourselves, bound for Shiraz.

Next day we left the plain, and entered the rugged defile

+242

known as the Urchini Pass, the somewhat monotonous grandeur
of which was enlivened by numbers of pilgrims bound for
Kerbela, by way of Isfahan and Kirmanshah, whom Haji Safar
did not fail to greet with a salutation of "Ziyarata kabul!"
("May your pilgrimage be accepted!"). Here I may remark that
the greetings used on the road differ from those employed
elsewhere, and each one has its appropriate answer. The commonest
of them are, "Fursat bashad!" ("May it be an opportunity!"),
to which the answer is, "Khuda' bi-shuma fursat dihad!" ("May
God give you opportunity!"); and "Oghur bashad!" ("May it be
luck!"), the reply to which is, "Oghur-i-shuma bi-khayr bad!"
("May your luck be good!").
It was not yet 3 p.m. when we reached Mayar, and halted
at an old caravansaray, the construction of which was, as usual,
attributed to Shah 'Abbas. There was nothing to do but to while
away the time as well as might be by lounging about, looking
at the few travellers who had taken up their quarters at this
disconsolate spot, and superintending the culinary operations of
Haji Safar.

The next day's march was almost precisely similar to that
of the previous day--a gray, stony, glaring plain (thinly covered
with camel-thorn and swarming with lizards), on either side
of which were bare black hills of rugged outline. Soon after
2 p.m. we came in sight of the blue dome of an Imamzade, situated
in the precincts of the considerable town of Kumishah. As it
was a Thursday (Shab-i-Jum'a, Friday Eve), which is the great
day for performing minor pilgrimages and visiting the graves
of deceased friends, we met streams of the inhabitants corning
forth from the town bent on such pious errands. Taking them
all round, I think they were the most ill-favoured, dour-looking
people I ever saw in Persia. Generally, however forbidding the
appearance of the men may be (of the women one cannot judge,
since they keep their faces veiled), the children at least are pretty
and attractive. But in all these files of people whom we met I

+243

hardly saw a single face which was otherwise than sour and
forbidding.

Before 3 p.m. I reached the telegraph station, and was
welcomed by Mr Gifford, the resident telegraphist, and his wife.
The son of the Governor of Kumishah, Mirza Aka by name,
was there, and later he was joined by his father, Mirza Mahdi
Khan, who had come to try and extract some information about
the political outlook in Isfahan. It appeared that an unfortunate
man from Izidkhwast had arrived in Kumishah on that or the
preceding day, bringing the news of the Zillu's-Sultan's dismissal.
This news was naturally very unwelcome to the Governor--so
unwelcome that he not only declined to believe it, but ordered
the man who brought it to be bastinadoed. Although this had
the effect of checking further speculation and gossip, the Governor
was unable to overcome a certain feeling of uneasiness as
to his future tenure of office, and hence these visits to the
telegraph-office.

Next morning the muleteer came to see me early, and offered
to push on to Amin-abad that day and to Shulghistan in Fars
on the morrow. I found, however, that this procedure would
involve passing some distance to the east of the curious village
of lzidkhwast or Yezdikhwast, which I was anxious to see. I
therefore decided to go no farther than Maksud Beg, and as this
was only four parasangs distant, I gladly accepted the invitation
of my kind host to stay to lunch and start after mid-day. The
march was absolutely without interest, and the village of Maksud
Beg, where we arrived about 4.30 p.m., was a most desolate-
looking spot. Here we found the Jewish minstrels who had
overtaken us at Marg entertaining the muleteers and villagers with
a concert in the caravansaray. The music appeared to me very
pleasing. This, and the exhilarating thought-that on the morrow
I should bid farewell to 'Irak, and enter the classical province
of Fars, the cradle of Persian greatness, enabled me to bear with
equanimity the dullness of the dilapidated caravansaray. I was

+244

further regaled with a dissertation by Haji Safar on the virtues
of the wood-louse. This animal, he informed me, only appears
for a short period before the Nawruz. At that great festival
people take it in their hands along with gold coins, "for luck."
It bears different names in the north and south: in Teheran it
is called khar-i-khaki ("Earth-ass"), while in Shiraz it enjoys the
more pretentious title of kharak-i-khuda'i ("Divine little donkey") .

On the following morning (10th March) we got off about
7.45 a.m. The scenery was similar to that of the preceding
two days--a stony valley, bounded by parallel chains of hills.
As we advanced, the hills to the east became lower and lower,
finally being reduced to broken fin-like ridges, situated one
behind another, while beyond these, bordering the western edge
of the plain, high snow mountains began to come into view,
which the muleteer informed me belonged to the province of
Luristan. About 11.15 a.m. we halted for lunch at Amin-abad,
the last village in 'Irak. From this point we could clearly see
before us a small conical hill, beyond which lay the hamlet of
Yezdikhwast, which I was so anxious to see. I had read many
accounts of this natural fastness, perched on a precipitous rock,
and accordingly, as we drew near the conical hill (which is called
Tele-pilaw, I suppose from its resemblance in shape to the pile
of rice which constitutes this dish), I strained my eyes eagerly
to catch a glimpse of its eyry-like abodes.

My first impressions were a mixture of disappointment and
surprise. On passing the hill I could plainly discern the green
dome of a little Imamzade surrounded by a straggling cemetery:
beyond this, apparently on the same level, and situated on the
flat plain which we were traversing, appeared the village of
Yezdikhwast. Where was its boasted inaccessibility, and the
sheer precipices which, as all travellers asserted, rendered it one
of the most marvellous natural fastnesses to be found in the
world? No amount of exaggeration, I thought, could account
for such a description of the place I saw before me, which

+245

apparently did not enjoy even the most trifling elevation above the
surrounding plain. While I was reflecting thus, and wondering
if the muleteers had, for some object of their own, deceived me,
we passed through the cemetery, and all at once came upon one
of the most remarkable sights I ever saw.

Right across our path lay a mighty chasm, looking like the
dry bed of some giant river of the past. In the middle of this
stood what I can only describe as a long narrow island, with
precipitous sides, the summit of which was crowned with tier
upon tier of gray, flat-roofed dwellings, which even hung over
the edge of the cliff, supported by beams and rafters. These,
projecting outwards in all directions, gave to the place the
appearance of some strange collection of birds' nests rather than
of human habitations. At the upper (i.e. the western) end this
island was almost joined to the northern edge of the chasm, the
comparatively shallow depression which separated them being
spanned by a drawbridge, by raising which all access to the town
can be cut off. At all other points a sheer precipice, increasing
in height towards the east, protects it from all possibility of
invasion.

At Yezdikhwast the road to Shiraz bifurcates. What is called
the sar-hadd, or summer road, bears to the south-west into the
mountains; while the garmsir, or winter road, crosses the chasm
or valley below Yezdikhwast, and trends towards the south-east.
As it was still early in the year, and the snow was not yet gone
from the uplands traversed by the former, we had determined
on following the latter, which course had this additional
advantage, that it would lead us past Persepolis.

The inhabitants of Yezdikhwast do not apparently care to
have strangers dwelling in their cliff-girt abode; at any rate, the
caravansaray and post-house are both situated at the bottom of the
chasm, across the little river (Ab-i-Marvan) which flows through
it, and to the south-east of the crag on which the village stands.
On coming in sight of the brink of the chasm we therefore

+246

made a detour to the right (west) which brought us to the
point where the drawbridge is placed, whence a path leads down
the side of the gully to the Caravansaray, where we arrived in
about a quarter of an hour. It is a very fine edifice, built, as an
inscription over the gateway testifies, by "the most potent king
and most generous prince, the diffuser of the faith of the pure
Imams,...the dog of the threshold of 'Ali the son of Abu-Talib,
...'Abbas the Safavi, may God perpetuate his kingdom and rule!"
The inscription is very beautifully executed, but unfortunately it
has been greatly injured, many of the tiles having been removed,
and others broken. I asked the villagers why they did not take
better care of a building of which they ought to feel proud. They
replied that it was not their fault: thirteen or fourteen years ago
a "Firangi" came by, and, wishing to possess some of the tiles,
offered one of the men at the post-house two or three tumans if
he would remove some of them. The temptation was too strong for
the latter, and accordingly he went the same night with a hammer
and chisel to carry out the traveller's wishes. Of course he
broke at least as many tiles as he removed, and a noble monument
of the past was irreparably injured to gratify a traveller's passing
whim.

I was anxious to see the interior of the village, and accordingly
asked some of the inhabitants who came to stare at me whether
they could take me over it. They readily agreed to do so, and
after tea I sallied forth with my guides, crossed the fields, already
green with sprouting wheat, and, skirting the southern face of
this natural citadel, reached the drawbridge at the western end.
Passing over this, we entered a dark passage, which, with
occasional outlets into comparatively open spaces, traverses, or
rather tunnels through, the whole village from west to east.
This is the only street, for the rock is narrow, though long, and
there is not room in most places for more than two houses side
by side. My guides informed me that their town, of which they
seemed proud in no small degree, was very old--300 years older

+247

than Isfahan--and, in proof of their assertion, they pointed to
a stone in the gateway on which they said I should find the date.
As a matter of fact, the only date I could see was (A.H.)
1218 (about A.D. 1803), but there appeared to be other more
or less obliterated characters which the gloom pervading
even the entrance of this dim passage would not suffer me to
decipher.

As we advanced, the street, at first open above, became
entirely covered over by houses, and the darkness was such
that we could not see a yard ahead, and were only saved from
continual collisions with other passengers by the cries of "Ya
Allah" uttered by my companions to give warning of our
approach.

The houses are for the most part three or four stories high,
and are entered by stairs communicating directly with the street.
On the outer side they are furnished with platforms or balconies,
one above the other, which overhang the cliff in a most perilous
manner. On to some of these my guides took me that I might
admire the view, but my enjoyment of this was somewhat
marred by the sense of insecurity with which the very frail
appearance of the platforms inspired me. "I should have
thought," said I to my guides, "that these platforms would have
been very dangerous to your children, for I observe that they
are provided with no rail to prevent anyone from falling over."
"They are dangerous," was the quite unconcerned reply; "hardly
a year passes without two or three falling over and being killed."
"I wonder the houses themselves don't fall," I remarked after
a brief interval, during which the palpable weakness of the flimsy
structure had become more than ever manifest to me. "They
do," replied the unmoved villagers; "look there." I turned my
eyes in the direction indicated, and saw a dismal wreck hanging
over the edge of the cliff. Feeling my curiosity quite satisfied,
I suggested that we should continue our tour of inspection,
whereupon they took me into one of the houses, which appeared

+248

to be the chief shop of the place, and set before me an array of
nuts and fruits, a few of which I felt compelled to eat as a matter
of courtesy, while the villagers watched me with grave and polite
attention.

We next visited the mosque, which seemed ancient, though
I could find no date graven on its walls--nothing but the usual
summary of Shi'ite faith: "There is no God but God: Muhammad
is the Apostle of God: 'Ali is the Friend of God." Though more
solid in structure than the other buildings, it is very simply
adorned, for it contains nothing but a minbar, or pulpit, looking
more like a step-ladder than anything else. This, and the arch of
the mihrab by which it stood, were the sole features whereby one
could divine that the place was not intended for a barn or a
granary.

On leaving the mosque we visited the one other shop which
this primitive place contains, where I was politely compelled
to accept of a quantity of that gruesome sweetmeat known as
shakkar-panir ("sugar-cheese"). Then we quitted the village by
the same way whereby we had entered it (for indeed there is no
other), and returned to the caravansaray. Though I retired to
bed early, I lay awake for some time watching the lights which
twinkled from the airy dwellings of Yezdikhwast and gave to
the shadowy outline of the great rock somewhat the appearance
of a gigantic vessel lying at anchor in a river.

Next day we ascended the southern side of the gully by a
road running eastwards, until we again reached the summit of
the plateau. Here I halted for a few moments to gaze once
more on the picturesque scene, and then we struck off towards
the south, still bearing somewhat to the east. On the road we
met many peasants and some few travellers; they nearly all
carried arms, and were as a rule darker in complexion and fiercer
in aspect than the inhabitants of 'Irak. About 2.30 p.m. we
arrived at Shulghistan, a small picturesque village, rendered
conspicuous by a green-domed Imamzade, close to which is

+249

situated the dilapidated caravansaray. Since the latter appeared
incapable of furnishing comfortable quarters, we betook ourselves
to the chapar-khane (post-house) opposite, where I was
provided with a very comfortable room. The postmaster (na'ib-
chapar) was extremely courteous and attentive, and sat
conversing with me for some time. From him I learned that the
news of the Zillu's-Sultan's fall, and the consequent dismissal
of all his deputy-governors, had created great excitement through-
out Fars, and especially at Shiraz, where the Sahib-Divan, in
whom the administration of the province had hitherto been
virtually vested, was greatly disliked. His dismissal was the signal
for universal rejoicing, and it was said that Riza Khan, the chief
of one of the Arab tribes settled in the neighbourhood of Shiraz,
was encamped near the Tomb of Cyrus at Murghab, waiting for
the arrival of the ex-governor, against whom he was breathing
threats of vengeance. The postmaster thought, however, that
the tidings of the advance of the new governor, Prince Ihtishamu'd-
Dawla, who had already reached, or nearly reached,
Isfahan, would prevent him from proceeding to extremities.

Later on another man came in, whose one sole topic of
conversation was dervishes, for whom he professed the most
unbounded regard. His enthusiasm had apparently been aroused
by the recent visit of some celebrated saint from Kirman. I
ventured to ask him if there were any Babis in Shulghistan, at
the very idea of which he expressed the utmost horror, adding
with pride, "We would at once slay anyone whom we suspected
of belonging to that sect, for here, thank God, we are all followers
of Murtaza 'Ali."

His attitude towards the Babis did not encourage me to make
further enquiries in this direction, and I therefore allowed him
to ramble on about his dervishes, Imams, and miracles. He
informed me, amongst numerous other stories of equal probability,
that there was a mountain two parasangs to the east of Yezdikhwast
called Shah Kannab. There, he said, the two sons of

+250

"Hazrat-i-'Abbas" took refuge in bygone days from the "army
of the infidels." The mountain opened to receive them, and
they passed within it; the infidels followed after them, but no
sooner had they entered than the rocks closed up behind them,
and shut them in.

"That was very wonderful," I said, "but tell me what became
of them, for I should have thought that it would have been better
if the mountain had closed before the 'army of the infidels'
could follow the two saints. As it was, it seems to me that they
were all shut up together."

"Yes," replied the narrator, "but, you see, the infidels were
all turned into stone at once. You might see them still if you
knew the way which leads to that wondrous cavern--men,
horses, camels, camel-drivers, children at their lessons, still
holding in their hands the books they were readingall turned
to stone! It is a wonderful thing!"

"So I should think," I answered, wondering inwardly whether
armies of infidels usually carried a host of school-children about
with them when they went in pursuit of fugitive saints; "but
you haven't told me what happened to the Imams who were so
miraculously preserved. Did they make their escape after this
signal mark of Divine Displeasure had been accomplished?"

"No, they did not," rejoined my informant; "they dwell
there still, and by their holy influence many wonderful miracles
are wrought, some of which I will tell you. There is a shrine
with two minarets on the mountain, and these minarets every
year recede farther and farther apart, a fact well known to all
in this neighbourhood. Furthermore, whoever goes there, and
prays, and then fixes his thoughts on anything which he desires
to possess--gold, silver, or precious stones--can take it from
the rock to his heart's content."

"And pray," I asked, "can one find one's way to this
marvellous mountain?"

"No, you cannot," retorted the other; "I could take you

+251

there if I chose, but I will not do so. ---Sahib, who was
formerly telegrafchi at Abade, offered me money if I would show him
the way, but I refused, for it is not lawful to reveal to unbelievers
these holy spots."

"That is a pity," I said; "and I venture to suggest that you
act unwisely in thus hindering them from witnessing miracles
whereby they might perhaps be brought to embrace Islam. It is
precisely for unbelievers that miracles are intended."

"Well," replied my informant, "there is perhaps reason in
what you say. But it is not necessary to go there to witness
proofs of the power possessed by the blessed Imams. Of this
we had a signal proof during last Muharram. A pazan (ibex or
mountain-goat) came at that time to the Imamzade across the
road, and took up its abode there for six months. Finally it
died, and is buried under a tree in the courtyard. We had no
doubt but that it was sent thither by the command of the blessed
Imams to strengthen the faith of all of us who witnessed it."

Altogether, I spent a very amusing evening with my talkative
friend, who, delighted to find an appreciative listener, remained
while I ate my supper, and did not finally leave till it was time
to retire for the night.

Next day was bright and windy. The scenery through which
we passed was of the usual type--a stony plain full of
camelthorn (now putting forth beautiful crimson blossoms from its
apparently sapless branches) between parallel ranges of barren
hills. The ground swarmed with lizards of two distinct types,
the ordinary brown lizard and the Buz-majje. This latter is an
animal which, as I subsequently learned, sometimes attains a
length of three or four feet, but the length-of most of those
which I saw did not exceed as many inches. They have big clumsy
heads furnished with spines, and long tails constricted at the
point where they join the body, which they have a habit of
jerking up into an erect position. They are very nimble in their
movements, and when frightened dart away like a dusky shadow

+252

for a few feet, and again come to a standstill. Haji Safar began
to tell me a long rambling story about the creation of the Buz-
majje, whereby he sought to account for its harmlessness. He
related this story in the dreamy, visionary manner which
occasionally came over him, and in the soft lisping accents of the
South. I was not paying much attention to his narrative, the
upshot of which appeared to be that the animals after their
creation all came into the presence of their Creator and sought
permission to be allowed-to injure man, their master and tyrant,
at some appointed time. All received this permission, except
the Buz-majje, which came late, and so was forced to be content
with a harmlessness far removed from its malicious desires.

My attention revived, however, when he began to talk about
Shiraz. "In eleven days more, Sahib, you will see Shiraz: perhaps
in ten, if you do not stop al Takht-i-Jamshid (Persepolis). You
will then enter it on the Nawruz: all the people--men, women,
and children--will be out in the gardens and fields; many of
them in the Tang-i-Allahu-Akbar, through which you will catch
your first glimpse of the city. All will be dressed in new clothes,
as smart as they can make themselves, enjoying the beautiful
green fields, singing, smoking kalyans, and drinking tea. There
is no other city like Shiraz: all about it the earth is green with
grass; even the roofs of the bazaars are covered with herbage.
It is the Green City of Solomon (shahr-i-sabz-i-Suleyman). And
the people are so quick and clever and generous. Not like those
miserable, miserly Isfahanis, nor yet like those stupid, thick-
headed Khurasanis. Have I ever told you the verses made by
the Isfahani, the Shirazi, and the Khurasani, Sahib?"

"No," I answered; "I should like to hear them very much."

"Once upon a time," he resumed, "an Isfahani, a Shirazi,
and Khurasani were travelling together. Now, one night they
succeeded in getting a dish of pilaw, and the Isfahani, being a
witty fellow, as well as stingy (like all his rascally countrymen),
suggested that no one should be allowed to have a share of the

+253

pilaw unless he could make a verse about his native country.
To this they agreed, and the Isfahani began--

'Az Safahan eyve-i-haft-rang mi-ayad birun.'

('From Isfahan fruits of seven colours come forth.')

The Shirazi, without a moment's hesitation--for all Shirazis have
a natural gift for versifying--went on--

'Ab-i-Ruknabad-i-ma az sang mi-ayad birun.'

('Our stream of Ruknabad comes forth from the rock.')

It was now the Khurasani's turn, but he, poor fellow, being
very stupid and slow, after the manner of his countrymen, could
not think of a rhyme for a long time, and was in great fear that
he would lose his pilaw after all, when suddenly an inspiration
came to him, and he concluded the stanza thus:--

'Az Khurasan misl-i-man aldang mi-ayad birun.'

('Out of Khursn come forth blackguards like me.')

Aldang, you know, is the Khurasani word for a luti, a rough, or
street vagabond."

About 2 p.m. we arrived at the little town of Abade, another
stronghold of the Babis. It will be remembered that the Babi
missionary at Isfahan, on bidding me farewell, had promised to
write to one of his co-religionists here, as well as at Shiraz, to be
on the look-out for me. I therefore hoped that I might have an
opportunity of holding further conversation with the members
of the proscribed sect, but in this hope I was disappointed, for
the shortness of my stay in the town, and the hospitality of
Sergeant Glover of the telegraph station, did not give me leisure
to seek out the person indicated to me. I was very favourably
impressed with Abade in every way, and the approach to it,
through lanes surrounded by orchards and gardens, the trees of
which were already bursting into blossom and filling the air
with their fragrance, was very beautiful.

At the telegraph station I was cordially received by Sergeant
Glover and his eldest son, a bright, clever boy of about fifteen,

+254

who had an excellent knowledge of Persian. I was most hospitably
entertained, and after dinner we sat up late discussing
Persian folk-lore, concerning which my host was a perfect mine
of information. He told me of a place called the Pari-hol, or fairy
hole, near Soh; of marvellous wells and caves in the mountains;
and of a hill where an old fire-worshipper was said to have taken
refuge from his persecutors, who marked the spot with a pile of
stones, meaning to return next day and renew their search. During
the night, however, by the Divine Power, the whole hill was
covered with similar heaps of stones, which utterly baffled the
search of the persecutors. These heaps arc said still to be visible.

Next day a short march of about three hours brought us to the
post-house of Surme. On arriving there, I was surprised to see
a European traveller standing at the door, who greeted me in
English. He proved to be one of the telegraph staff at Shiraz
travelling up to Isfahan and Teheran, and kindly offered me a
share of the bala-khane (upper-room), which was the only respectable
apartment in the post-house. Even that was horribly cold
and draughty, for a violent wind was still blowing. Notwithstanding
this, we spent a very pleasant evening together, and, by
combining our resources, managed to produce a very respectable
supper.

Next day, after a leisurely breakfast, we parted on our
respective roads. The wind had dropped, the sky was cloudless,
and the sun very powerful. We could see the road stretching
away straight before us for three parasangs or so, when it took
a sudden turn to the left round an angle of the mountains. As we
advanced--very slowly, owing to the sorry condition of our
beasts--the plain gradually narrowed, and became broken by
great crests of rock rising abruptly out of the ground. The
mountains on the right (west) grew gradually higher and higher,
and their summits were now crowned with snow. On reaching
the angle of the road above-mentioned we halted by some
rocks for lunch. The spot was not devoid of beauty, which was

+255

enhanced by the numerous pink and crimson blossoms of the
camel-thorn (shah-pasana), which grew in profusion round about.

On leaving this place we began to ascend, and continued to do
so till, about 4 p.m., we reached the disconsolate stone
caravansaray of Khan-i-Khurre, which stands quite alone and apart
from other habitations. It was crowded with people of all sorts:
Bakhtiyaris, and other tribesmen on their migrations towards
their summer quarters; people who had come out from Shiraz
and elsewhere to meet the new Governor and do him honour;
and a certain small contingent of ordinary travellers. I might
have had some difficulty in obtaining quarters if my acquaintance
of the previous day had not informed me that there was a special
room in the caravansaray, set apart for members of the telegraph
staff, which I might have by applying to the caravansaray-
keeper for the key. I did so, and thus obtained a warm, snug
room, where I might otherwise have been compelled to put up
with the most miserable quarters. Though the caravansaray was
in the most ruined and filthy condition, the ground being strewn
with dead camels and horses in various stages of decay, the scene
was not lacking in interest owing to the strange costumes and
stranger appearance of the tribesmen. The women do not cover
their faces, and many of them are endowed with a certain wild
beauty.

After tea I had a visit from the postmaster (na'ib-chapar), who
came to consult me about some disorder of the chest from which
he was suffering. He soon, however, forgot the object which
had brought him, and wandered off into a variety of topics, which
he illustrated with a surprising number of quotations from the
poets; and it was only when he rose to depart that he again
recurred to his ailments. His dreamy abstracted manner had
already led me to suspect that he was a votary of opium and other
narcotics, and in reply to a question to this effect he answered
that he did occasionally indulge in a pipe of tiryak when depressed
in spirits.

+256

"Perhaps you take hashish now and then for a change?" I
asked.

"Well," he replied, "I don't deny that I do now and then."
"Of course you smoke the kalyan too?"

"Yes," he said, "what else is there to do in this desolate spot
where there is no society except these tribesmen?"

"Well," I said, "I wish very much that I could do anything
for you, but the state of the case is this: the essential principle
of treating diseases is to remove their cause, and unless this can
be done it is very little use to give medicines. Now, smoking
kalyans in excess disorders the chest, and I understand that you
do smoke them very often. Whether the opium and hashish which
you also take are answerable for the evil in any degree I can't
say, but at any rate it is scarcely likely that they do you any good.
Just now you quoted this couplet from . Hafiz--

'How well said the aged farmer to his son,
"O Light of my eyes, thou shalt not reap save that which thou hast sown!"'

Now people who 'sow' kalyans (opium) and hashish necessarily
'reap' bad chests; and I am afraid that, unless you can manage
to give them up, or at any rate confine your indulgence in them
to moderate limits, your chest will not get any better. Do vou
think you can do this?"

"You are right," he replied (convinced, I feel sure, more by
the quotation from Hafiz than by anything else), "and I will try
to follow your advice." So saying, he departed and left me alone.

Next day we started early, as the muleteers were anxious to
"break" a stage--that is, to go three stages in two days; so that
our halting-place for the night was not to be Dihbid, where there
is a telegraph station, but Khan-i-Kirgan, situated some two
hours' march beyond it. Our road continued to ascend almost
till we reached Dihbld, and once or twice we enjoyed a fine view
to the east across the Plain of Abarkuh to the great range of

+257

mountains beyond which lies the city of Yezd. We were joined
for some distance by a dark, stalwart man, who turned out to
be a kasid (courier) carrying letters from Abade to Bawanat. He
was conversationally inclined, and told me tales of encounters
with wolves and other wild animals which abound in these
mountains, but the dialect which he spoke was difficult to
comprehend, and prevented me from profiting by his anecdotes as
fully as I might otherwise have done. Suddenly we came to a
road crossing ours at right angles, and thereupon our companion
took a long draught from our water-bottle, and, without a word
of farewell, disappeared in a valley leading down into the Plain
of Abarkuh.

After his departure Haji Safar entertained me with a long
disquisition on kasids and their marvellous powers of endurance.
He assured me that one had walked from Teheran to Shlraz in
five days, while another had gone from Bushire to Shiraz in two
days. He added that the latter had come near forfeiting his life
for his prowess, because Prince Ferhad Mirza, then Governor of
Fars, hearing of his exploit, had said, "Such a man had best be
put to death forthwith, for one who can go on foot from here
to Bushire in two days might commit murder or highway robbery,
and be in another province before his crime was even discovered."
I am fain to believe that this was only a grim jest on the part of
Ferhad Mirza; at any rate the sentence, as I was informed,
was not carried out.

The wind, which had been gradually increasing in strength
since the morning, began now to cause us much annoyance,
and indeed Dihbid, as I subsequently learnt by experience, is
one of the windiest places in Persia. Haji Safar, however,
declared that in this respect it was far behind Damghan, on the
Mashhad road. "This is but a place which the wind visits at
times," he remarked, "but it lives there: its abode is in a well,
and anyone can arouse it at any time by throwing dirt or stones
into the well, when it rushes out in anger."

+258

Our road was redeemed from dreariness by the variety of
beautiful flowers with which the advancing spring had bedecked
the upland meadows. I noticed particularly the wild hyacinth
(sunbul-i-biyabani), and the sight of its long narrow dark green
leaves enabled me better to understand the appositeness of the
comparison between it and the "tresses of the beloved" so often
made by the Persian poets.

It was nearly 1.30 p.m. when we reached Dihbid, a small
village consisting of about fifteen or twenty cabins, a very
dilapidated caravansaray, a post-house, and the telegraph-office.
To the latter I at once made my way, and was welcomed very
cordially by Mr and Mrs Blake. They expressed great regret on
learning that I could not stop with them for the night, and
repeatedly pressed me to do so with a hospitality so evidently
genuine that I would gladly have altered my plans and
relinquished the idea of "breaking a stage" had that been possible;
but the muleteer had gone on with the baggage, and I was
therefore compelled to adhere to my original intention, contenting
myself with a halt of three or four hours for rest and refreshment.

It was beginning to grow dusk when I again set out, and
the gathering shades of evening warned me that I must bestir
myself, especially as the muleteer was no longer with us to direct
our course. Mr Blake kindly volunteered to ride some distance
with me to put me in the right way, and this offer I was glad to
accept. Crossing the little river just beyond the village we saw
a flight of about a dozen storks, and farther on four gazelles.
Half a mile or more to the west of the road stood an old withered
tree close to a mined caravansaray, and this spot, as Mr Blake
informed me, was reputed to be haunted by a "white lady,"
but with the details of this superstition he was unable to acquaint
me.

When we had ridden a farsakh, my host bade me farewell
and turned back, whereupon we quickened our pace so as to

+259

make the best use of what daylight still remained. Long before
we reached our halting-place, however, it was quite dark, and
we were left to pick our dubious way by the light of the stars
and a crescent moon; so that it was more by good luck than good
management (for the road had here dwindled to the merest
track) that we were finally apprised by the barking of dogs of
the proximity of human habitations. In five minutes more we
crossed a bridge and found ourselves at the solitary caravansaray
of Khan-i-Kirgan.

As it was quite dark, and I was, moreover, very cold and
tired, I had no opportunity of making any observations on the
nature of the place or its inhabitants that night, but on the
following morning I discovered that here also were domiciled
multitudes of tribesmen on their way to their surnmer quarters.
On the road, which wound through-beautiful grassy valleys
bedecked with sweet spring flowers, we met many more, all
bound for the highland pastures which we were leaving behind
us, and a pretty sight it was to see them pass; stalwart, hardy-
looking men, with dark, weather-beaten faces; lithe, graceful
boys clothed in skins; and tall, active women with resolute
faces, not devoid of a comeliness which no veil concealed. They
were accompanied by droves of donkeys bearing their effects,
and flocks of sheep and goats, which paused here and there to
nibble the fresh grass.

Early in the afternoon we descended into the valley of Murghab,
and, passing the hamlet of that name (a well-built and
thriving-looking village, pleasantly situated by a beautiful clear
streamlet) halted at Dih-i-Naw, some three miles farther on. The
feeling of regret at not having sought for a lodging at the former,
which the first sight of the somewhat squalid appearance of the
latter caused me, was at once removed when I learned that the
group of ancient ruins generally identified with the site of the
city of Pasargadae on European maps, and known to the Persians
as Takht-i-Suleyman ("the Throne of Solomon") and Masjid-i-

+260

Madar-i-Suleyman ("the Mosque of the Mother of Solomon"),
was situated within a few minutes' walk of the village. As it
was not much past four o'clock in the afternoon, I determined
at once to visit them, and thus to obtain a general idea of their
appearance and arrangement, reserving a closer inspection of
them for the morning. They have been so often and so well
described that I shall confine myself to a brief account of their
more salient features.

Leaving Dih-i-Naw on the south, or Shiraz, side, the first
object of interest reached is the Takht-i-Suleyman. This, consisting
of a large platform faced with masonry, projects from the face
of a hill situated a little to the left (east) of the high road, not five
minutes' walk from the village. Its frontage must be about 150
feet, and here the conscientious thoroughness and solidity of the
masonry is most easily appreciated. I noticed the holes for the
iron clamps (which have themselves been removed) noticed by
Sir R. Ker Porter, and also the peculiar marks on most of the
stones which he, if I remember rightly, was inclined to regard as
characters of some ancient language. The villager who accompanied
me declared that they were marks placed by each mason
on the stone at which he had worked, in order that the amount
of his work and the wages due to him might be proved; and I
have no doubt that such is their nature. At any rate, they in no
wise resemble the characters of any known alphabet.

From the platform of the Takht-i-Suleyman the whole plain
of Pasargadae is clearly visible. The Shiraz road takes a bold
sweep towards the west ere it quits the plain and enters the grand
defile through which flows the river Pulvar, and all the ruins
except the Tomb of Cyrus (or Masjid-i-Madar-i-Suleyman, as the
Persians call it) are situated within a short distance of it and of
one another, on the left hand of the southward-bound traveller.
The Tomb of Cyrus lies about half a mile beyond them, on the
opposite side of the road: it is encircled by a little village, and
is regarded by the Persians as a place of considerable sanctity.

+261

The first building to which I came on descending from the
Takht-i-Suleyman is that called by Ker Porter Atash-kede ("the
Fire-Temple"). My guide, however, gave it the name of Zindan-
khane ("the Prison-house"). It is situated close to the road, which
it faces, and is very solid and massive in structure, but bears no
inscriptions or carvings. The western end of the building only
is standing; it is about thirty feet high, and contains sixteen
courses of stones, and a window, below which is a buttress.

The next object which presents itself is a solitary square pillar
of white stone in twelve courses, bearing a cuneiform inscription
of four lines, of which the second is separated from the third,
and the third from the fourth, by a blank space. I could not learn
that it had any popular name.

A short distance beyond this lies the main group of ruins,
called Nakkara-khane-i-Suleyman ("the Music-hall of Solomon").
Amongst these the most conspicuous object is a very tall slender
column about sixty feet high, white in colour, and circular in
shape, composed of four stones placed one on the other, the
length of each one diminishing from below upwards. This
column is quite plain, and bears no inscription. There are two
or three other pillarlike structures, which appear to have
formed the corners of the ruined edifice. At the back of each I
noticed the hollowing-out of the stone noticed by Ker Porter. One
of them bears on its north face a cuneiform inscription similar
to that already noticed on the first column, but containing
four or five different characters. On the western side of this
group of ruins (i.e. on the side facing the road) are the remains
of two doorways, each about five feet in width. The stones
forming the sides of these are blackish in colour and susceptible
of a high degree of polish. They are broken off within two feet
of the ground, and on their inner surfaces are carved two pairs
of feet, both turned towards the entrance. Of these, the outer
pair are human feet, the inner pair feet like those of a bird: both
are beautifully executed. A fragment of a similar doorway also

+262

exists on the south side, and this is adorned with two pairs of
human feet. A little beyond this is a portion of wall standing,
some of the stones of which bear marks similar to those observable
on the Takht-i-Suleyman.

A little distance to the east of this group of ruins, i.e. farther
from the road, stands a solitary column, on the west side of
which is carved in bas-relief the beautiful winged figure described
and depicted by Ker Porter and others. I was still absorbed in
delighted contemplation of this, when my guide, impatient at
the long delay, called attention to the approach of evening, and
urged me to return, declaring that it was unsafe to be out in
the plain after dusk, and reminding me that I could complete
my examination of the ruins next day. With regret I acceded to
his request, and reluctantly retraced my steps. On the way back
my companion talked freely of the state of the country and the
dismissal of the old Sahib-Divan from the government of Fars,
at which he expressed unbounded delight. I asked if the Sahib-
Divan had been a cruel governor that he had so aroused the
hatred of the people. To this question my guide replied in the
negative, alleging his incapacity and lack of integrity as the reason
why he was so much disliked. "He has made everything dear,"
he concluded, "and we enjoy no sort of protection from the
rapacity of the wandering tribes, who carry off our cattle and
flocks without the least fear of reprisals. Riza Khan, his old
enemy, is now encamped between Seydun and Sivand with all
his tribe, and has sworn to slay him if he can waylay him on his
journey north; in which attempt I, for my part, wish him all
success. He has already begun stripping and plundering all the
followers and retainers of the ex-governor on whom he can lay
his hands, including forty of Zeynu'l-'Abidin's men who were
sent out to catch him or drive him away, and who came back to
Shiraz crestfallen and discomfited, with nothing but their shirts.
As for the new governor, the Ihtishamu'd-Dawla, if he is like
his father, Prince Ferhad Mirza, he will keep things in better

+263

order. Indeed, already the marauders have desisted from their
raids, and our flocks and cattle are once more safe." So my
companion ran on; and I was surprised to see that his fear was
not so much that the new governor might be too harsh, as that
he might not govern the province with a sufficiently firm hand.

Next day on quitting Dih-i-Naw I again visited the ruins
above described, and, after reluctantly tearing myself away from
them, proceeded to explore the Tomb of Cyrus. This, as I have
already mentioned, is called by the Persians "the Mosque of the
Mother of Solomon," and is regarded as a holy place, so that I
had some fear lest they should prevent me from entering it. This
fear fortunately proved to be groundless; indeed, one of the
inhabitants of the adjacent village volunteered to accompany
me as a guide, though such assistance was quite unnecessary.

The Tomb of Cyrus, being built of white stone, forms a most
conspicuous landmark in the plain of Pasargadae. It consists of
a rectangular roofed chamber of extraordinary solidity, situated
on a square platform approached on all sides by steep and lofty
steps, up which one must climb, rather than walk, to reach the
low entrance. The building bears no inscriptions in cuneiform
or Pahlavi characters, but numerous Musulman visitors have
engraved their names on its walls and steps. I had hitherto
imagined that the passion for leaving such memorials of one's
visit was peculiar to the West, and reached its highest development
with the English and Americans; but not only the ruins of Pasargada
and Persepolis, but every post-house and caravansaray in Persia,
bear witness to the fact that this habit is hardly less rife
amongst the Persians. De Sacy was, I think, the first to direct
attention to these interesting relics of former travellers. In
the presence of the ancient cuneiform characters, which carry us
back to the time of the Achemenian kings, one is tempted to
overlook them, though not a few of them date back to the earlier
Muhammadan period. The longest of these inscriptions is situated
on the wall to the right of one entering the mausoleum. This wall

+264

is adorned with a rude mihrab (probably made by those who first
conceived the idea of sanctifying the burial-place of the ancient
fire-worshipping monarch by connecting it with the name of
Solomon), on the lower portion of which is cut the word Allah.
This is surrounded by a long rectangular border raised into a
subsidiary rectangle on the upper side to embrace the mihrab,
the whole length of which is occupied by a much-worn Arabic
inscription, only legible in parts, beginning: "In tbe Name of God
tbe Merciful, tbe Clement. Verily we have opened unto tbee a
perspicuous victory...." At the left-hand lower corner of this
border, close to the ground, is a Neo-Persian inscription in Arabic
characters of an archaic type. Across the end of the chamber
opposite to the door was hung a string, on which were suspended
ribbons, pieces of cloth, beads, pipe-bowls, and other votive
offerings brought by pious visitors to the shrine; and in the
corner lay a copy of the Kur'an.

Leaving the mausoleum, I turned to descend, examining the
steps and the inscriptions cut on them on my way. Some of the
stones bore mason's marks similar to those referred to in speaking
of the Takht-i-Suleyman. Besides these there were a great many
Neo-Persian inscriptions, mostly undated, or of comparatively
recent date, some almost illegible, others as clear as though cut
yesterday.

Around the base of the steps is a small burial-ground strewn
with fragments of other buildings which have perished. At its
entrance are two long stones, propped one against the other in
the shape of an inverted V, which form a sort of gate to the
enclosure. Each of these is engraved on its inner surface with
a line of Arabic in a fine bold character. The space left between
the two stones is very narrow, and their surfaces are worn as
smooth as glass by the passage of generations of pilgrims and
visitors. These stones are supposed to be endowed with healing
virtues, and my guide informed me that anyone bitten by a mad
dog can be cured by crawling through the narrow interstice

+265

which separates them. To the faith of the people in this theory,
if not to its truth, the high degree of polish on the inner surfaces
of the stones in question bore witness.

Turning at length with much reluctance from this interesting
spot, I again mounted and rode forward, and, in a few minutes,
quitted the plain and entered the splendid rocky defile through
which the river Pulvar flows down towards Shiraz. This defile,
with occasional widenings into fertile grassy valleys, continues
to within two stages of Shiraz. There, a little beyond the post-
house of Puze, its rocky walls fall sharply away to the east and
west as it enters the great plain of Marv-Dasht. At that point
its width is three or four miles; in the rocks to the right are the
tombs called by the Persians Naksh-i-Rustam; on the left,
opposite to these, are the sculptures of Naksh-i-Rajab, the ruins
of Istakhr, and just round the angle formed by the Kuh-i-Rahmat
("Mountain of Mercy") the stupendous remains of Persepolis,
of which I shall shortly have to speak.

This defile of the Pulvar offers some of the finest and most
picturesque views in Persia: the rugged cliffs which hem it in
on either side; the rushing river meandering through fertile
meadows under the willows which fringe its banks; the fragrant
shrubs and delicate flowers which, at this season, perfume the air
and delight the eye; the gaily-plumaged hoopoes--the birds of
Solomon--which dart through the clear sunny air; but most of all,
perhaps, the memories of the glorious Past which every footstep
awakens, all combined to render this one of the most delightful
parts of my journey.

Soon after turning into the defile we ascended the rocks to
the right for some distance, and entered the Sang-bur ("Rock-
cutting"), a passage two or three hundred yards in length, just
wide enough to admit a man and horse, hewn out of the mountain
side. While marvelling at this enduring triumph of the engineering
skill of ancient Persia, a vision arose in my mind's eye of
gorgeously apparelled horsemen spurring in hot haste with

+266

messages to or from the "Great King" through the Rock-
cutting. I pictured to myself the white temples and lofty halls
of Pasargadae first bursting on their sight, and sighed inwardly
as I thought of that departed splendour, and of the fickleness of
fortune, which has taken away the very tomb of Cyrus from him
to bestow it upon Solomon.

Soon after leaving the Sang-bur I was startled--almost frightened
--by the sudden apparition of four or five armed men, who sprang
out from behind a rock and barred my progress. The reports which
I had heard of the disturbed state of Fars, the turbulence of
its inhabitants, and the deeds of Riza Khan flashed
through my mind; and I was in full expectation of a summons
to surrender my money or my life, when I was reassured by a
humble request on the part of the spokesman of the party that
I would be kind enough to "remember the poor tufankchi" who
watched over the safety of the roads. I was so relieved that I
readily gave him what he desired; and it was not till I had passed
on, and these guardians of the peace had once more hidden
themselves in their ambush, that I was struck by the ludicrous
nature of the proceeding. Imagine policemen or sentinels in
England hiding behind rocks and leaping out on the passing
traveller to ask him for a "present" in recognition of their vigilance!

About mid-day I halted in a pleasant meadow by the river for
lunch. The infinitely-varied shades of green and red exhibited
by the willows, just bursting into foliage, the emerald hue of the
grass, and the pleasant murmur of the rushing river flowing past
me, rendered the spot charming beyond all description. Haji
Safar, whose spirits appeared to rise higher and higher as he
drew nearer to Shiraz (for, whatever he may say, in his heart of
hearts every Shirazi thinks his own native city incomparable
and peerless), was in high good humour--a fact which always
disclosed itself by his giving me a better meal than usual--and
on this occasion he went so far as to kindle a fire and make some

+267

tea, which he brought me triumphantly when I had finished
eating.

Reluctantly quitting this delightful spot, we again continued
on our way through scenery as varied as it was grand, and presently
passed through one of the wide cliff-girt valleys into which
the Pulvar defile here and there expands. Here the rich pastures
were dotted with groups of black tents belonging to the wandering
tribes (ilyat) moving northward into the mountains, while
their flocks of sheep and goats, tended by dark-eyed graceful
shepherd boys, moved hither and thither over the plain. Leaving
this happy valley we entered another defile, which brought us,
a little before 6 p.m., to the village of Sivand, in which is situated
the last telegraph station before Shiraz. Here I was received with
the utmost kindness by Mr and Mrs Whittingback, whose little
boy had ridden out to meet me some while before, for I was
expected earlier.

Next morning I did not start till about ten o'clock, being
unwilling to leave the hospitable roof of my kind entertainers.
The post-road to Shiraz continues on the left bank of the river,
but as I wished to visit the inscriptions on the rocks above
Haji-abad, which lies on the opposite side, we forded the stream,
and followed the western bend of the valley, thus shortening our
day's march by nearly a parasang. Soon after mid-day the village
of Hajl-abad came in sight, and, as I was uncertain as to the exact
position of the inscriptions, I began carefully to scrutinise
the rocky cliffs to the right, in the hopes of discerning some
trace of them. Presently I detected a small squarish hole hewn
in the face of the rocks some distance up the side of one of the
mountains (which at this point receded considerably from the
road), and at once proceeded to scramble up to it. As usual, the
clearness of the atmosphere led me to underrate the distance,
and it was only after a long and hot climb that I finally reached
the spot, where, to my disappointment, no inscription was visible
--nothing but the shallow excavation, which in the distance

+268

looked like the mouth of a tunnel. For what purpose and by
whom it was made I do not know, but I saw several similar
excavations in the neighbourhood. Disappointed in my search,
I again descended to the foot of the mountains, and continued
my way along their base, eagerly scanning the rugged cliffs above
me. I was much afraid that after all I might fail in discovering
the object of my search, so numerous were the clefts, valleys,
and ravines by which the mountains were indented and intersected
at this point. Presently, however, I came to the opening
of a wider valley, running straight up into the hills, where it
divided into two small glens, which ascended to the right and
left, to lose themselves in the mountain above. In the mouth of
this valley were pitched two or three tents, near which a tribesman
was watching his grazing flock. Accosting him, I enquired
whether he knew where the writing on the rocks was to be
found.

"Do you mean the writing or the sculptures?" he demanded.

"The writing," I answered; "I know that the sculptures are
lower down the valley."

"And what do you want with the writing?" asked the shepherd,
suspiciously. "Can you read it?"

"No," I replied, "unfortunately I cannot; nevertheless I have
heard that there are writings from the ancient time somewhere
in these rocks, and I am desirous of seeing them."

"You can read them, I know very well," said he, "and you
hope to find treasures there; many Firangis come here seeking
for treasures. However, if you must know, they are up there,"
and he pointed up the valley. I wished to ask him in which
bifurcation of the valley they were, but he had returned to
his sheep, evidently disinclined to give me any further
information.

There was nothing for it but to explore both of the gullies
in question, and I began with the one to the right. It led me up
into the heart of the mountain, and, after scrambling up amongst

+269

huge rugged boulders, I finally found myself at the mouth of a
most gloomy-looking cavern, which appeared to run straight
into the hillside. From the rocks above and around the water
dripped with a sullen plash; a few bones scattered on the ground
irresistibly suggested the thought that I was in close proximity
to the lair of some wild beast, and caused me instinctively to feel
in my pocket for my revolver; while the silence and loneliness
of the spot, whence I could not even see the road, being hemmed
in on all sides by beetling rocks, made me in no wise sorry to
retrace my steps as soon as I was well assured that the object of
my search was not to be found here.

I now proceeded to explore the other ravine, which, if less
gloomy, was hardly less imposing than that which I had just
quitted. As I ascended, its sides grew steeper and steeper, until,
approaching one another more and more closely, they terminated
in sheer precipices. At this point several huge boulders lay at
their feet, seeming to bar all further progress, and I was beginning
to doubt the advisability of trying to proceed farther, when,
raising my eyes to the rocks on the right, I espied, some distance
up, a long depression, looking dark in the sunshine, on the wall
of which I thought I could discern a prepared tablet of cruciform
shape. Hastily ascending to this, I perceived with joy that my
conjecture was right. On the rock forming the back of this
hollow was a prepared surface, shaped roughly like a cross with
very thick limbs, along the transverse length of which were four
tablets hewn in the mountain face. Of these tablets the two
situated to the left were bare, having apparently never received
the inscriptions for which they were destined; but each of the
other two bore an inscription of some length in Pahlavi characters.
The inscriptions in question have been fully treated of by Haug
in his admirable Essay on the Pahlavi Language and it
is therefore unnecessary for me to say more of them in this
place than that one of them is in Sasanian, and the other in
Chaldeo-Pahlavi; that both belong to the reign of Shapur I,

+270

the son of Ardashir Babakan, the founder of the dynasty; and
that consequently they date from the third century of the
Christian era.

Having satisfied my curiosity, I returned to Haji Safar, who
was awaiting me with the horses in the road, and we proceeded
in a straight line towards the village of Zangavar (situated on the
same side of the river as Haji-abad, nearer the end of the valley),
where I proposed to halt for the following day, as it forms the
best starting-point for visiting Persepolis and the rock-sepulchres;
of Naksh-i-Rustam. Our progress was, however, soon checked
by innumerable streams and ditches, and we were compelled to
return to the road skirting the base of the mountains on the
western side of the valley. Annoying as this delay at first
appeared, it was in truth a most fortunate occurrence, for, while
looking about for signs of a path which would lead us more
directly to our goal, I suddenly caught sight of a large cruciform
excavation on the face of the rock, which I at once recognised,
from the descriptions I had read and the sketches I had seen,
as one of the tombs of Naksh-i-Rustam, on which I had thus
unexpectedly chanced. Haji Safar seemed scarcely so well
pleased as I was, for he well knew that this discovery would
involve a further delay, and, as the day had now turned cold and
windy, he would doubtless fain have reached the halting-place
as soon as possible. Since an hour or two of daylight still
remained, however, it was obviously out of the question to waste
it; and as I knew that the morrow would be all too short fully
to explore the wonders of Persepolis, I was anxious to get a clear
impression of the monuments which so thickly beset this angle
of the valley.

Accordingly I spent about an hour in examining and taking
notes of these--a delightful hour, which passed only too quickly.
The monuments in question are well-known to all travellers and
antiquarians, and have been fully described in many books, so
I shall content myself with merely enumerating them.

+271

They are as follows:--

(i) Four rock-sepulchres dating from Achaemenian times.
Externally, these present the appearance of crosses cut in the
rock, with limbs equal in length and about half as wide as they
are long. The aperture affording access to the inner gallery (which
corresponds to the horizontal limbs of the cross in length, height,
and position) is near the centre. Of the interior I shall have to
speak shortly. Two pillars carved out of the rock stand on either
side of this aperture, which is forty or fifty feet above the ground.
The upper limb of the cross is adorned with sculptured symbols,
amongst which a fire-altar surmounted by a crescent moon, a
priest engaged in devotional exercises, and, over all, the winged
figure girt with the symbol of infinity, which forms so constant
a feature in the Achaemenian tombs, are most conspicuous.

(ii) Six tablets bearing inscriptions and bas-reliefs of Sasanian
workmanship. Close to the first of these (proceeding from the
north southwards) is a modern Persian inscription*, bearing the
date A.H. 1127 (A.D. 1715), which is already almost as much
defaced as the Sasanian inscriptions by the side of which it stands,
and far more so than the exquisite cuneiform of the Achaemenians.
Of the six Sasanian tablets, most of which are commemorative of
victories over the Romans, and one or two of which bear long
Pahlavi inscriptions, the first is adjacent to the Neo-Persian
inscription noticed above, and stands about half-way between
the first and second rock-tombs, but close to the ground;

* This is not the only place where the kings of modern Persia have
adopted this time-honoured means of perpetuating tbeir fame. A similar
tablet, bearing a bas-relief of the king on horseback spearing a lion, as
well as a Neo-Persian inscription (also barely legible), may be seen in the
rocks to the north of what is generally regarded as the site of Rey, near
Teheran. I believe that it was cut by order of Fath-Ali Shah. Another and
a much better tablet, containing, besides a Persian inscription, bas-relief
portraits of Nasiru'd-Din Shah (by whosc command it was cut) surrounded by his
ministers, forms a conspicuous object on the rocks above the admirably-
constructed new road leading through Mazandaran from the capital to Amul,
about two stages south of the latter town. This will be further noticed in
its proper place.

+272

the second is placed under the second rock-tomb; the third
between the second and third rock-tombs; the fourth under
the fourth rock-tomb; and the fifth and sixth, one above the
other, just before the angle formed by the falling away of the
cliffs to the west where the valley enters the plain of Marv-Dasht.

(iii) Opposite the last rock-tomb, on the other side of the road
(which runs close to the face of the cliff), is a square building of
very solid constmction, bearing some resemblance to the Tomb
of Cyrus. This can be entered by climbing without much
difficulty. It is called by the villagers Ka'ba-i-Zaratusht ("the
Caaba of Zoroaster").

(iv) On a summit of the rocks which form the angle of the valley
is a cylindrical pillar about five feet high, sunk in a socket
cut to receive it. This is called Dasta-i-Pire-Zan ("the Old
Woman's Pestle").

(v) Beyond the angle formed by the junction of the Pulvar
valley with the Marv-Dasht, and consequently concealed from
the sight of one standing in the former, are two altars, each
about four and a half feet high, hewn out of the solid rock. These
are well described and figured by Ker Porter.

The above list comprises all the remains included by the
Persians under the name "Naksh-i-Rustam," and, with the
exception of a brief description of the interior of one of the
rock-tombs which I shall shortly attempt, I shall say no more about
them, since they have been exhaustively described by many writers
far more competent in this matter than myself.

While engaged in examining the Naksh-i-Rustam, we were
joined by a villager who had been collecting a plant called kangar
in the mountains. Some of this he gave to Haji Safar, who
cooked it for my supper. It is by no means unsavoury, and
resembles celery more than anything else I can think of. This
villager proved to be a native of Zangavar, the village whither
we were bound; and on learning that I proposed to spend the
morrow there, so as to explore the antiquities in the neighbourhood,

+273

he offered to obtain the help of one or two other men
who, by means of a rope, would haul me up to the platform of
the rock-tombs, so as to enable me to examine its interior.

As the gathering dusk warned me that I must postpone
further explorations till the morrow, I regretfully turned my
back on the Naksh-i-Rustam, and, after a ride of fifteen or
twenty minutes, reached the large straggling village of Zangavar.
Here I was informed that the Kedkhuda (chief man of the
village), apprised by the muleteer of my arrival, had assigned
quarters to me in the takye consecrated to the Muharram passion-
plays. Proceeding thither, I found a clean and comfortable
room set apart for me, in which I had hardly installed
myself when the Kedkhuda in person, accompanied by one or
two friends, came to pay his respects. He was a nice old man,
very courteous and kindly in his manners, and we had a long
conversation, of which the antiquities in the neighbourhood
formed the principal topic. He told me that a little while ago two
Frenchmen (working for M. Dieulafoy) had been engaged for
some time in making plans and taking photographs of Persepolis
and the Naksh-i-Rustam, in front of which they had erected a
sort of scaffold (manjanik) the better to reach its upper part. They
had lodged in this village; but, the Kedkhuda complained, had
been very unsociable and reticent, refusing to allow the people
to watch their work or see their photographs and sketches.

This subject exhausted, the Kedkhuda began to question me
concerning our religion, and to ask me whether I had heard of
the European doctor who had recently embraced the Muhammadan
faith at Shiraa. I answered that I had read about his
conversion in a Persian newspaper which I had seen at Isfahan,
and that I was very desirous of conversing with him, so that I
might learn the reasons which had led him to abandon his own
creed in favour of Islam.

"Perhaps you, too," said the Kedkhuda, "will, by the grace of
God, be brought to believe in the religion of our Prophet. You

+274

have come to see our country from afar; do not, like the majority
of the Firangis, occupy yourself with nothing but dumb stones,
vessels of brass, tiles, and fabrics; contemplate the world of ideas
rather than the world of form, and seek for Truth rather
than for curiosities. Why should you not even pay a Visit to the
most holy tombs of our Imams at Kerbela and Nejef? There you
might see the miracles whereby they prove to all that they still
live and rule."

"Gladly would I do as you advise," I replied, and I trust
that I am not so bigoted as to refuse fairly to consider whatever
proofs can be adduced in favour of your religion. Unfortunately,
however, your countrymen and co-religionists, so far from
offering any facilities to 'unbelievers' for witnessing the miracles
whereby, as you say, the Imams continue to manifest their power
and presence to the world, would drive me from their shrines
like a dog if I attempted to approach them, even as they did at
the shrine of Shah 'Abdu'l-'Azim. Surely they act most unwisely
in this matter; for if, as you say, miracles are there wrought, they
must be intended not so much for those who believe as for those
who doubt, and who might be convinced thereby."

"You are perhaps right," said the Kedkhuda, after a moment's
reflection, "yet still I would urge you to make the attempt, even
if you must disguise yourself as a Persian to do so. It would be
a pity that you should come here at so much trouble and expense
and should take back nothing with you but a collection of those
curiosities and antiquities with which your people seem for the

On completing my
most part to be so strangely infatuated." So saying, the Kedkhuda
took his departure and left me to myself.

Although I was up in good time next day, all eagerness to make
the best use of an opportunity which I should in all probability
never again enjoy, I was delayed in starting for some time by a
crowd of people who, hearing that I possessed some medical
knowledge, desired to consult me about their various disorders;
and it was not till nine o'clock that I finally left the village,

+275

accompanied by the villager whom I had met on the previous
day, two younger men provided with ropes, and a little boy who
enlivened the way with his childish prattle. Arrived opposite
the Naksh-i-Rustam, my guides advanced to the second rock-
tomb, which is somewhat nearer the ground than the others,
and more readily accessible. One of them climbed up the rocks
with marvellous agility to the narrow platform which crosses
the entrance. He then let down the rope, by the aid of which
the others followed him. The rope was again lowered, I bound
it firmly round my waist, and, not without sundry bumps and
abrasions, was hauled up to where they stood.

Entering the tomb by the low doorway opening on to this
ledge or platform, I found myself in a long gallery corresponding
to the transverse limb of the cross carved on the face of the rock.
This gallery was twenty-seven paces in length from end to end,
three paces in width, and perhaps twenty feet in height. On the
side opposite to the entrance, four rectangular recesses are hewn
out of the rock, the width of each being about four and a half
paces. The floors of these are not level with the ground, but raised
some three feet above it. Out of each of these floors are hewn three
parallel tombs or sarcophagi, their greatest length being parallel
to the gallery, and consequently transvers to the recess in which
they lie. These sarcophagi were, of course, empty (except for
some debris of stones and rubbish), and their coverings had been
destroyed or removed.

On completing my examination of the tomb and descending
to the ground, I found a small knot of people collected. These
asked me whether I could read the inscriptions, and would
hardly believe my assertion that I was unable to do so, asking
me if I were not a "mulla." Indeed, one or two appeared to
imagine that they were written in my own language, or in one
of the languages of Firangistan.

We now struck across the valley towards Persepolis--"Takht-
i-Jamshid" ("the Throne of Jamshid"), as it is called by the

+276

Persians--fording the river Pulvar, and passing a square stone
platform on its further side, called "Takht-i-Ta'us" ("the
Peacock Throne"). Following the eastern side of the valley
for a short distance, we presently turned the corner formed by
its junction with the great plain of Marv-Dasht, and all at once
there burst on my wondering gaze the stupendous ruins of
Persepolis.

Of the ruins of Pasargadae, the Tomb of Cyrus, and the rock-
sepulchres of Naksh-i-Rustam I have attempted to set down
some description, however meagre. In the case of Perseporls
it would be vain to make this attempt, since the three or four
hours during which I wandered through its deserted halls, trod
its silent stairs, and gazed in admiration, such as I have seldom
before experienced, on the endless succession of lofty columns,
giant statues, and delicate traceries (whose beauty long ages,
kinder than the besotted Macedonian who first stretched forth
his impious hand against them, have scarcely marred), were
hardly sufficient to enable me to do more than wonder and
admire. To study Persepolis would require months; to describe
it, volumes. It has already been studied and described by others
far more competent than myself. All that I shall do, then, is to
notice certain minor details which happened to strike me.

On the stones of Persepolis, as on the monuments which I
have already noticed, a host of travellers of many ages and many
nations have carved their names, their sentiments, and their
reflections, by the side of the ancient cuneiform inscriptions.
Only, by as much as Persepolis exceeds all the other ruins in
extent and splendour, by so much do these memorials exceed
all the rest in number and interest. The two great stone lions
which guard the entrance of the eastern hall, and the adjacent
walls, seem to have been the favourite spots. Amongst the
European names recorded here, those of Malcolm and his suite,
carved in large bold Roman characters, are most conspicuous;
while, amidst the remainder, cut or written in every possible

+277

fashion, the names of not a few distinguished travellers are to be
found. The sense of admiration and awe with which the place
inspired me made me feel that to follow their example would
be almost a profanation, and I turned to examine the similar
memorials left by Musulman visitors.

Many of these consisted, like their European congeners, of
mere names and dates, and to these I paid but little attention.
Here and there, however, a few lines of poetry, or a reflection
on the transitoriness of earthly glory in Arabic or Persian, showed
me that the same feeling of mixed awe and sadness with which
the place inspired me had affected others. Some of these
inscriptions were not devoid of grace and beauty, and I could not
help thinking that, if one must leave a token of one's visit to such
a spot, these records of the solemn feelings evoked thereby were
more seemly and more congruous than aught else. As a specimen
of their tenour I append translations of two, both in Arabic:
one in prose, one in verse.

The first was written in A.H. 1206 (A.D. 1791-2) by a son of
Shah-Rukh Mirza, and runs as follows:

"Where are the proud monarchs of yore? They multiplied treasures which
endured not, neither did they endure."

The second consists of four lines of poetry, attributed by the
carver to 'Ali, the successor of the Prophet:--

"Where are the kings who exercised dominion
Until the cup-bearer of Death gave them to drink of his cup?
How many cities which have been built betwixt the horizons
Lay ruined in the evening, while their dwellers were in the abode of death?"

This was cut by 'Ali ibn Sultan Khalid ibn Sultan Khusraw.

In one of the windows a stone was pointed out to me, so
highly polished that I could clearly see therein my reflection
as in a mirror. Here and there excavations have laid bare long-
buried chambers. Some of these excavations were undertaken
by the command of Ferhad Mirza, the Shah's uncle less, I fear,
from a disinterested love of antiquarian research than from a

+278

hope of finding treasure, which, according to the universal belief
of the Persians (based, perhaps, on traditions embodied in
Firdawsi's Book of Kings), is concealed in the neighbourhood. My
guides assured me that a large "brick" or ingot of solid gold had
actually been discovered, and that it had been sent to Teheran,
where it was preserved in the treasury of the Shah. They also
pointed out to me the spot where Ferhad Mirza had caused
some delinquent to be hanged over the parapet of the great
terrace.
It was sad to note how in many places the faces of such bas-
reliefs and figures as could be reached from the ground had been
wilfully defaced by fanaticism or ignorance, while many of the
animals carved on the walls and staircases had been made the
targets of marksmen, as witnessed by the numerous bullet-marks
which they bore. But in all cases, so far as I saw, the winged
genius girt with the girdle typifying infinity, which, looking
forth from almost every column and cornice, seemed to watch
still over the cradle of Persia's greatness, had escaped uninjured.

On reaching the edge of the platform next the mountain from
the face of which it is built out, two sepulchres on the hillside
above attracted my attention, and I was making towards them
when I suddenly espied two figures approaching me. The pith
hat worn by one stamped him at once as a European, and I,
thinking that it must be my friend and late fellow-traveller,
H---, hastened forward to meet him. A nearer approach,
however, showed that I was mistaken. The wearer of the pith
hat proved to be an English officer who had been staying for
some days in Shiraz on his homeward road from India. He was
now bound for Teheran, and thence for England by way of Russia.
From him I learned that H--- had posted up to Persepolis and
back to Shiraz a day or two before, and that he had probably
already set out for Bushire. After a short conversation we
separated, and I proceeded to examine the tombs above
mentioned which, in general plan, closely resemble the sepulchres

+279

of Naksh-i-Rustam, with this important difference, that being
situated on a sloping hillside, instead of on the face of a cliff,
they are entered without difficulty, the inner floor being level
with the ground outside. Besides this, they only contain two
sarcophagi apiece, and a single recess, which is vaulted instead
of being rectangular.

Short as the time had seemed to me, symptoms of impatience
began to manifest themselves in my guides. Although it was not
yet four o'clock, they declared that the lateness of the hour made
it advisable to withdraw from this solitary spot, lest robbers,
tempted from their hiding-places in the mountains by the approach
of night, should waylay us. Without attaching much credence
to their representations I was forced to yield to them,
and, with many a backward glance of regret, to turn my back on
Persepolis. On the way back to the village I lingered for a while
to examine the Sasanian bas-reliefs of Naksh-i-Rajab, which are
situated in a little hollow on the mountain side just behind the
post-house of Puze, and attempted to transcribe the Greek
inscription of Shapur I, which afforded the key whereby the
mysteries of the anomalous and ambiguous Pahlavi tongue were
first unlocked.

Next morning I quitted Zangavar, and again turned my face
southwards. Our departure was greatly delayed by a crowd of
sick people seeking medical advice, and, even when we at length
escaped from these, an unwise attempt to take a short cut towards
the main road resulted in a further loss of time. All the morning
our course lay across the flat marshy plain of Marv-Dasht--a vast
amphitheatre, surrounded by mountains of which some of those
to the west assume the wildest shapes. Amongst these one, on
which the ruins of an ancient fortress are said still to exist, is
conspicuous for its precipitous and apparently inaccessible summit.
The day was cold and cloudy with some rain, a state of things
which rendered travelling over the naturally moist and marshy
plain rather unpleasant. I was surprised, at this distance from the

+280

sea, to observe a number of gulls. They are called by the Persians
Murgh-i-Nawruzi ("New Year's Bird"), so that their appearance
(which is, perhaps, limited to this season) was very appropriate;
for we were now within a day of that most ancient and most
popular festival, the feast of the New Year ('Id-i-Nawruz),
whereby the Persians have, from time immemorial, celebrated
the advent of spring.

About mid-day we reached the end of the plain and entered
another valley, in which we presently came to a great sheet of
water, stretching away to the east towards the Band-i-Amir*.
This is traversed by a stone causeway, and swarms with a variety
of waterfowl. Leaving this behind, and bending somewhat to
the left towards the mountains which form the eastern limit of
the valley, we reached Zargan, our last stage before Shiraz, about
dusk.

During the morning we had passed eight or ten horsemen,
whose arrogant bearing and unprovoked incivility proclaimed
them servants of the ex-governor; and while passing the sheet
of water above mentioned we had heard numerous shots in the
surrounding hills and on the borders of the lake, which testified
to the presence of a party of sportsmen. Rumour had, moreover,
apprised us of the fact that Prince Jalalu'd-Dawla (the son of
the fallen Prince Zillu's-Sultan, and the nominal governor of
Shiraz), as well as the aged Sahib-Divan, the virtual governor,
had quitted the city, in which they had no excuse for remaining
longer, and were on their way northwards to the capital with a
large company of followers and retainers. On reaching Zargan
it was, therefore, witn more annoyance than surprise that I
found the whole town filled with the soldiers and servants of
the young prince and his minister. Enquiries for lodgings were
everywhere met with the same reply, that there was not a room
to be had for love or money in the place; and it was only after

* The "Bendemeer's stream" of the poet Moore. Its name signifies "the Amir's Dyke."

+281

a protracted search through every part of the town that I was
fortunate enough to secure a lodging for the night in a small
room which served during the day as a weaver's shop. While the
implements of the owner's craft were being removed, I was
scrutinised with sullen curiosity by a small knot of villagers, over
whose spirits the presence of the soldiers appeared to have cast
a gloom which rendered them silent and abstracted.

And here at Zargan I was like to have suffered yet graver trouble,
and came near perishing, as Haji Safar poetically observed, "like
a moth consumed in the candle of Shiraz," ere ever I set eyes
on that beautiful and classical city. For while, according
to my wont, I lay smoking and reading in my camp-bed before
composing myself to sleep, slumber overtook me unawares, and
I lost all consciousness of my surroundings till I suddenly awoke
with a sense of suffocation and contact with something hot. A
moment's examination showed me that the quilt on which I lay
was smouldering and aglow with sparks. I immediately sprang
up and dragged it on to the ground, when I found the mischief
to be much more extensive than I had imagined, at least a third
of its lower fold being in a state of ignition. Having neither
water nor light at my disposal, I was compelled to awaken Haji
Safar, who was sleeping outside on the ground; and our united
efforts soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames, but not till
the greater part of the quilt had been consumed. Neither was
this the only mischief done, for my coat and waistcoat had both
suffered in greater or less degree, while the smoke and steam
produced by the conflagration and its extinction filled the room,
and rendered the atmosphere well nigh unbearable. I was
thankful enough, however, to have escaped so lightly from the
effects of my own carelessness, and, leaving the door open, and
rolling myself up as best I could in the remnants of my bedding,
was soon asleep again. Haji Safar, who, though at times self-
willed and refractory, was never wanting in time of need, insisted,
in spite of my remonstrances, in covering me with his cloak,

+282

which he could ill spare (the night being chilly), so that I
enjoyed a greater measure of comfort than I deserved.

When I awoke in the morning all recollections of the disaster
of the previous night were obliterated by the joyous thought that
before the sun was down I should set foot in that city which, for
seven years, it had been the chief ambition of my life to behold.
Leaving Zargan, we had first to strike out into the plain to join
the main road (remarkabie for its excessive stoniness), which,
crossing over a low pass, brought us to a building called Baj-gah
("the Toll-House"), where customs' dues were formerly levied.
I was surprised at the number of travellers whom we met--more,
I think, than on any previous day's march since we quitted
Trebizonde. Many of these were servants or messengers of
the old or the new administration, but at all times the traffic
between Zargan and Shiraz seems to be considerable. Beyond
this there was little to attract my interest till, about 1.30, on
surmounting another pass, Haji Safar cried out "Ruknabad! Ruknabad!"
and, with a thrill of pleasure, I found myself at the source
of that stream, so dear to every Shirazi, of which Hafiz declared,
in perhaps the best known of his poems, that Paradise itself could
not boast the like.

But for the rich associations which the sight of it evoked
in my mind, I might perhaps have experienced that sense of
disappointment with which Vambery declares he was affected by
the first view of this classic stream. As it was, I saw nothing
but the limpid water rushing from its rocky source; heard
nothing but its melodious ripple; thought nothing but those
thoughts which rise in the mind of one who first stands in the
favourite haunt of an immortal bard who immortalises all that
he touches. One often hears the expression, "I had heard so
much of such-and-such a thing that when I saw it I was quite
disappointed." This may happen in the case of objects admired
or loved only for themselves, but not of those endeared by their
associations. One does not love Hafiz because he wrote of

+283

Ruknabad: one loves Ruknabad because it was written of by
Hafiz.

In this pleasant spot I tarried for about an hour, eating my
lunch under the shadow of one of the trees which stand by the
edge of the stream. Again setting out, we came in about an
hour to a building called Khil'at-pushi, where, as its name implies,
governors of Shiraz, honoured by receiving such a distinction
from the Shah, come out to meet the bearers of the royal favours,
and are invested with the robe of honour. Shortly after passing
this spot we perceived a horseman advancing towards us, who
proved to be the chief servant of my host, the Nawwab Mirza
Haydar 'Ali Khan. After presenting the Nawwab's compliments
and regrets that he had been unable himself to come out
to welcome me by reason of the multitudinous social duties
incidental to the Nawruz, the servant turned his horse's head and
led the way towards the city. We were, I gathered, quite close
to it now, and I was so full of expectancy that I had but little
inclination to talk. Suddenly we turned a corner, and in that
moment--a moment of which the recollection will never fade
from my mind--there burst upon my delighted gaze a view the
like of which (in its way) I never saw.

We were now at that point, known to all students of Hafiz,
called Tangi-Allahu Akbar, because whoever first beholds
Shiraz hence is constrained by the exceeding beauty of the sight
to cry out in admiration "Allahu Akbar"--"God is most
great!" At our very feet, in a grassy, fertile plain girt with
purple hills (on the loftier summits of which the snow still
lingered), and half concealed amidst gardens of dark stately
cypresses, wherein the rose and thel judas-tree in luxuriant
abundance struggled with a host of other flowers for the mastery
of colour, sweet and beautiful in its garb of spring verdure
which clothed the very roofs of the bazaars, studded with many
a slender minaret, and many a turquoise-hued dome, lay the
home of Persian culture, the mother of Persian genius, the

+284

sanctuary of poetry and philosophy, Shiraz. Riveted on this,
and this alone, with an awe such as that wherewith the pilgrim
approaches the shrine, with a delight such as that wherewith
the exile again beholds his native land, my eyes scarcely marked
the remoter beauties of the scene--the glittering azure of Lake
Mahalu to the east, the interminable gardens of Masjid-Bardi
to the west. Words camlot describe the rapture which overcame
me as, after many a weary march, I gazed at length on the reality
of that whereof I had so long dreamed, and found the reality
not merely equal to, but far surpassing, the ideal which I had
conceived. It is seldom enough in one's life that this occurs.
When it does, one's innermost being is stirred with an emotion
which baffles description, and which the most eloquent words
can but dimly shadow forth.

From the Tang-i-Allahu Akbar the road runs broad and
straight to the gate of the city, to reach which a wide and well-
built bridge spanning a river-bed (which, even in spring, contains
comparatively little water except after heavy showers, and
which in summer must be almost dry) is crossed. Descending
this road, which at this festal season was enlivened by hundreds
of pleasure-seekers, who, dressed in their best, had come out
from the city to enjoy the fragrance of the air and the beauty
of the fields, we first passed under the arch, in a chamber over
which is preserved the great "Kur'an of 17 maunds" (Kur'an-i-
hafdah mani), whereof it is fabled that a single leaf, if removed,
would weigh as much as the whole volume. Lower down, just
to the right of the road, Musalla, another favourite haunt of
Hafiz, was pointed out to me. The building which at present
stands there is quite modern, and the "rose-walks," on which
Hafiz dwells so lovingly, have disappeared. To the left of the
road were the gardens of Jan-numa, Dil-gusha, Chahil-tan and
Haft-tan; beyond these were visible the cypresses which over-
shadow the grave of Hafiz; while farther still the tomb of Sa'di
could just be discerned. To the right lay a multitude of other

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gardens of less note; everywhere the fresh grass clothed the plain
with a robe of verdure such as is seen but rarely in Persia; while
the soft spring air was laden with the perfume of a thousand
flowers. I ceased to wonder at the rapturous enthusiasm where-
with the Shirazi speaks of his native city, or to regard as an
exaggeration far removed from the truth that verse of Sa'di's
which I have already quoted:--

"Pleasant is the New Year's outing, especially in Shiraz,
Which turns aside the heart of the wanderer from his native land."

Nay, in these "meadows set with slender galingale," in this "land
where all things always seemed the same," I felt constrained to
"fold my wings, and cease from wanderings"; almost as though a
voice from the unseen had whispered them, there sounded in my
ears the lines--

"Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

A little before reaching the bridge which leads to the Isfahan
gate, we turned to the right, and continued outside the city wall
till we came to the "Gate of the King's Garden" (Derwaze-i-
Bagh-i-Shah), by which we entered. A short ride through the
narrow, tortuous streets brought us at length to the house of
my host, the Nawwab. Dismounting at the gate, I was ushered
into a large and handsome courtyard paved witb stones and
traversed by a little stream of clear water which flowed from a
large square tank at the upper end. On either side of this stood
a row of stately sycamores, interspersed with orange-trees, while
a mass of beautiful flowers tastefully grouped lent brightness to
the view and fragrance to the air.

As I stood here the Nawwab himself came out to welcome
me with that easy courtesy and unaffected hospitality wherein
the Persians excel all other nations. Taking me by the hand, he
led me into a room opening into the courtyard, where, as is

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customary at the New Year, and for the twelve days which
succeed it (during which all work is laid aside, and paying and
receiving congratulatory visits is the sole business of all), a
multitudinous array of all manner of sweetmeats was laid out.
The samavar (urn) hissing in a corner gave promise of the welcome
tea, which did not delay to make its appearance. After I had
partaken of two or three cups of this, and answered the usual
questions concerning the friends I had left at Teheran, the
journey, and my health, the Nawwab rose and conducted me to
the rooms which, at the special request of his elder brother, the
Nawwab Mirza Hasan 'Ali Khan (in whose house at Teheran
I had spent so pleasant and profitable a month), had been set
apart for me. Pleasant and commodious as they were, and
luxurious as they seemed after the hardships of the road, their
chief charm in my eyes was that they had given shelter to poets
whose names form the brightest ornament of modern Persian
literature--poets amongst whom in sweetness, melody, wealth
of metaphor, and purity of diction, the brilliant genius of Ka'ani
stands unrivalled and unsurpassed.